Christmas traditions
by codename.penguin
Summary: The boys are preparing to celebrate their second Christmas together. A rocky beginning makes them anxious that this will now become a tradition.
1. I do not have a death wish

Hi, welcome to my Christmas story. In my timeline, _Reichenbach Falls_ never happened and the boys are preparing to celebrate their second Christmas. The two friends are a little more emotional than in my S/J friendship story, _Do you even care?_ but its Christmas, so I am taking some liberties. We start off with a bit of a quarrel but end in warm fuzzies, presents and tasty things to eat.

The wonderful christmas story photo is from the bakerstreetbabes website.

Happy Holidays!

Chapter 1– **I don't have a death wish**

The steady hiss, hiss noise mingled with a jingle of bells, steadily pulled John from a dreamless sleep.

Slowly he opened his eyes and frowned, reflexively pulling up his blanket to hide the scars he had received during the war, quite forgetting that he was wearing his pyjamas.

'Sherlock, what are you doing?' the man grunted in an exasperated manner.

During the night it would appear that the detective had moved into the armchair in the doctor's room, and turned it into a cozy rat's nest. Scientific journals, three opened bags of skittles, one box of peppermints and a few empty cups of tea all littered the floor. In the chair itself, Sherlock's mobile was propped up against the Union Jack pillow, where it belted out a lively Christmas tune from its tiny but powerful speakers. However, at the moment, the detective was kneeling infront of John's dresser.

'I'm cleaning,' Sherlock answered as he held aloft his rag and can of furniture polish. 'Aren't you going to get up?'

John groaned and hid his face in his pillow, 'We got in at four this morning. Why would I want to get up now? Why are _you_ already up and dressed for the day? Just go away. Please! Find some way of amusing yourself in _another_ room.'

'I think you better get up now,' Sherlock insisted, as he walked over and tugged the man's blanket away.

'Why?' John whined, starting to feel fuzzy in the head again, as he curled up into a little ball to preserve the warmth of the sheets as best as he could.

'Because for you, 36 hours is quite a long time to go without eating.'

What?

What did he say?!

John rolled over and squinted at the pale light coming through the window. It was hard to determine what time of day it was as the snow pelted hard against the pane.

'Mrs. Hudson made you a beef broth,' Sherlock murmured as his flat mate propped himself up, and tried to wrap his mind around the fact that he had slept through an entire day.

Absently, the doctor stared at the man's back as he walked away, before glancing across at where he had placed his sleeping pills on the bedside table.

The little bottle was missing.

'Oh no,' he muttered.

John hadn't meant for Sherlock to see that and the doctor's heart sank as he instinctively knew a lecture was coming. The bottle may have been unlabelled, but Sherlock was an accomplished chemist and he most likely had broken down its contents. John slumped down and covered his face with his pillow.

Sure enough the detective returned, tray of food in one hand, missing bottle of sleeping pills in the other.

Silently, Sherlock placed the tray across his lap before folding his slender frame into the armchair with a stern look.

'What do you have to say for yourself?' the detective asked as he placed his fingertips together and regarded him with an anxious but angry stare.

John dug into his broth, famished beyond belief. 'Sherlock, I appreciate your concern but you have the wrong idea.'

'Do I?' he said scornfully. 'You polished off a quarter bottle of cough syrup and then you sneak away to your room to take a sleeping pill. Don't tell me it's not, because I tested it in my lab! I was this close to scooping you up and running all the way to Bart's.'

John's eyebrows raised in surprise. One of Sherlock's little personal quirks involved hospitals visits, in that he never visited. The detective had no problem staying the whole day in the morgue with Molly, but for some reason he flatly refused to go into a hospital for any sort of medical treatment.

'When I am dead you can take to me the hospital,' Sherlock had said comfortingly on one memorable occasion, when John had to practically move the entire contents of an emergency room to the flat, inorder to treat one of Sherlock's injuries.

John rolled his eyes at the man seated beside him, 'you are not seriously about to give me a lecture on drug use, are you?'

'Why? Do you need a lecture in drug use?' Sherlock replied sharply.

'Not from you,' John muttered under his breath as he shovelled in his soup.

'What?'

'I am sorry I worried you,' John replied. 'I was trying to decide which medication to take. I didn't take them together! Please Sherlock; give me some credit that I know my profession. I wouldn't have mixed those two drugs …not unless I had a death wish.'

From the way the detective's eyes widened slightly, John deduced that this shocking thought had crossed the man's mind.

'I don't have a death wish!' John yelled out incredulously, as he waved his arms around in his agitation. 'Good Gad, you drive me around the twist! Why can't I just have a normal best mate like everyone else?! Where did you get this ridiculous idea from?!'

And here they were.

Sherlock tapped his fingertips together nervously. They had come to the point more quickly than he liked. He still hasn't figured out what he was going to say. However, he took a moment to switch off the music from his mobile, as Feliz Navidad was not an appropriate accompaniment to what he was about to discuss.

'You haven't been acting like yourself John, and it is a statistical fact that people get more depressed during the holidays.'

John's jaw dropped open, 'what are you nattering on about? Yes, I am more tired than normal because I am fighting a cold _and_ we have been working so bloody hard. Christmas apparently brings out all the lunatics in London, and just in case you didn't know, YOU'RE ONE OF THEM!'

Sherlock gave no outward reaction to being called a lunatic.

'I am not talking about how much you are sleeping. It is winter, we're all programmed to sleep longer,' he stated in his most irritating lecturer voice, 'with or without cough syrup.'

John groaned anew. Even though he was completely annoyed, it hadn't escaped his attention that judging from all the personal detritus cluttering up his immaculate room, Sherlock had been loyally watching over him, all the hours he slept. Because of that alone the doctor held on to his patience.

'Then what?' John inquired, taking a deep breath to encourage calm thoughts, 'What in my behaviour is so off?'

'It's just…' Sherlock said with an unusual amount of hesitancy for him, 'by this time last year, you had every stick of furniture in the flat polished to within an inch of its life. This year you've done nothing. John, I can't find the Christmas decorations. Where are they?'

The doctor swirled his spoon around his broth, pointedly ignoring the question.

'Did you throw them away?' Sherlock asked in a low voice.

The spoon clattered noisily against the tray as the doctor turned his head away, and a painful silence fell between the two men.

'I take it from your response, that you are have _not _yet forgiven me for last year's debacle?' Sherlock sneered, aggravation dripping from each syllable.

'Do you think I should forgive you?' John asked bitterly.

The detective stared at the ceiling in frustration. 'John, I didn't have a choice…'

'You had a choice,' John interrupted him in an acid voice, 'you chose to leave all the people behind that cared about you, and go chasing some mystery woman! We deserved better from you.'

Sherlock skewered him with a nasty glare, half shocked that John had so casually brought up _that_ woman. As a rule, they never spoke about HER.

To his pristine recollection, Sherlock hadn't asked for them to break up the Christmas party. He had excused himself quite politely in his opinion. He had tried, but in the end, he was too distracted by matters of _national_ security to be in the mood for more eggnog.

'This is tedious. I am _not _apologising again,' the detective snapped, feeling frazzled to know that his best mate still harboured such strong feelings about last year.

John snorted in disgust. 'Just for you information, you _never_ apologised.'

He didn't?

Sherlock couldn't remember that part. He did remember John standing at his elbow but other than that, the New Year was a blur of memories that he would rather permanently delete.

'Well I'm sorry!' Sherlock snapped, leaning over with a scornful look that clearly indicated he wasn't particularly sorry at all. 'I am sorry I ruined your Christmas and I am sorry that I was such a bleeding disappointment to you and everyone! There, that should make you cheerful now.'

Sherlock sprang out his chair and stared out the window. His heart was pounding so hard with the ferocity of his words that he had to prop himself up with one hand on the wall.

What the bloody hell was that about? John knew he hated to be cornered verbally! How dare he talk to him like he was a three year old child?!

From the continued silence behind him, Sherlock finally concluded that his apology was being ignored. Even though he could acknowledge to himself that it was a piss poor attempt, John usually knew how to translate these things. Why did he even bother? He was no good at this at all. He was no good…

The detective reached out for his coat and scarf, 'I need to check in with Lestrade. Why don't you get some rest? I will buy you more cough syrup when I am out.'

John looked up as Sherlock walked over and held out his hands.

'Can you stand?' the detective asked awkwardly. 'I won't leave you if you can't move around on your own.'

John rolled over to the opposite side and slowly climbed to his feet, flatly refusing the man's offer of assistance. However, now that he was standing, the small man realised that he desperately needed the bathroom.

By the time he came out, Sherlock was gone.

**TBC** (Next chapter is up!)


	2. What makes me happy

Chapter 2-**What makes me happy…**

John wrapped himself up in his blanket and trotted down the steps to the living room. He should really go back to bed. His throat was hurting again and his head was starting to pound but for some reason he restlessly roamed around the flat, searching for what, he didn't know.

Sherlock had started some bits of cleaning down here too and the room was more untidy than normal.

Blindly, John's eyes fell on the cold dark fireplace and as he stared at the two armchairs, his mind drifted to a week ago, when they had happily occupied the seats. Another successful case was behind them but they had been extremely lucky. One of the bad guys had fired off a shot so close to Sherlock's face, that it had grazed his left cheek. A little more to the right and the detective could have had that eye patch he always wanted.

However, the two men agreed that the incident might not have happened if they weren't so busy arguing with each other.

They had promised then to try harder not to fight so much. But of course, it was easy to make a promise like that when you were warm and snug infront a fire, filled to the brim with hot cocoa and marshmallows. But not a week later, here they were again, squabbling like some old married couple. They were hopeless.

John sat in Sherlock's chair and curled himself up into a small ball. Why did they do this to themselves?

In their line of work, criminals did their best to put additional ventilation in their bodies on a daily basis. How would he feel if something happened to Sherlock before they could speak again? His chest constricted painfully at the thought. As irritating as the man could be, Sherlock was a good friend. Sherlock knew him for what he was, not the hero doctor everyone believed him to be and there was comfort in the knowledge that he was deeply understood and accepted just as he was.

He should call. Yes he should, because Sherlock's temper was more stubborn than a goat's, and the detective would never call first.

What should he say?

Have a nice day? Bring home a loaf of bread?

As stupid as it sounded, anything had to be better than the way they left things. John slumped in the chair exhausted. When had life in the flat become such a battle ground? Maybe he should go away for a bit. Sherlock didn't need to be saddled with his ornery temper. He wasn't feeling very Christmassy this year and the flu that was coming was wearing him down. A holiday from each other might be just what the doctor ordered.

However, as John looked around the semi dark room, he was struck by its dismal appearance in the heavy gloom of winter. Last year around this time, every corner had sparkled with light and laughter. Could he really leave the man alone here? Mrs. Hudson would be off to her sister's for the holidays. John supposed he could ask Molly to look in on him from time to time.

No, what was he thinking?! Lestrade could find something for him to do. Sherlock probably wouldn't even notice he was gone.

No wait…Sherlock was making small signs that he _did_ want to celebrate Christmas this year, as surprising as that was! John held his aching head in one hand. They would make this decision later when the man returned home, but for now, his mind switched back to the nasty way they had left things between them.

John climbed to his feet, and shuffled towards his room at warp speed. He wanted to get to his mobile as quickly as possible, so that he could call the other man, and hear his voice. He would just say hello and tell the detective to stay warm. That was a nice safe greeting and would make them both feel much better. When next they spoke, things would be cheerful between them again.

Some sixth sense made John stop and look over his shoulder.

For several, long moments John anxiously stared at the front door and the shadow underneath it. Was it a trick of the light, or was someone standing there?

All the hair on his arm rose and he reached out to grab a hammer in Sherlock's lab a.k.a. the dining room table.

'Sherlock, please tell me that's you leaning against the front door?'

'It is,' Sherlock sang out.

John closed his eyes in relief as he dropped his weapon.

Clutching his blanket tightly around himself, he stumbled forward to open the door only to find the consulting detective sitting on the cold floor in the hall, with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Only someone with a heart of stone wouldn't be moved by such a pathetic bundle of misery.

The doctor stared down at the man's bushy head, waiting for him to look up, but the detective seemed content to study the lacings on his shoes. With a quiet tut, John knelt behind him and gently wound his arm around Sherlock's neck. 'I thought you were going out for some fresh air.'

'You should be in bed,' Sherlock insisted in a croaky whisper as he patted John's arm with his gloved hand. He felt his vision blur at the kindness in the doctor's voice and manner. He didn't deserve to have such a friend.

'Are you alright?'

'Better now,' Sherlock said warmly, as he closed his eyes and pillowed his cheek along John's forearm.

'I asked Mrs. Hudson to give the Christmas decorations to a needy family,' John said quietly, 'I'm pretty sure she would have kept it for us, just in case we changed our minds.'

'Dear Mrs. Hudson,' the detective murmured.

John exhaled gently, relieved at this abrupt change in mood from his friend. Thank God. They didn't need to be tearing each other apart with harsh words and past mistakes. It was Christmas for crying out loud. The time of forgiveness, good cheer etc etc.

'You've taken me completely by surprise this year,' the doctor continued conversationally, as if their brutal argument never happened, 'this is quite a burst of holiday spirit from you.'

'As you very much aware, what I know about Christmas spirit could fit in a thimble with room to spare,' Sherlock snorted.

The doctor looked down at Sherlock's face, wishing he would open his eyes. It was hard to get a fix on the man's thoughts like this. The alabaster smoothness of his skin rendered him into a living statue, with not even a tell tale change in color to guess at his mood.

'Well now I am confused.'

Sherlock was so quiet and still for such a long time that John began to think he had fallen asleep against his arm.

'You were so happy last year,' the detective finally explained, 'I just thought if I could recreate it all, you would be happy again.'

For a moment or two John was breathless, hardly able to believe his ears. He took it back. He didn't want a normal best friend at all. He wouldn't give up Sherlock for anything in the world.

'It is true, I was very excited last year,' the doctor murmured, trying to find just the right words to explain something that should be obvious to Sherlock but clearly wasn't. 'I loved the decorations and the food and your music, but that is not what made me happy.'

The doctor felt the man tense under his hand; intently listening to his voice, if nothing else.

'I was happy because for the first time in months I could walk without a cane. I was happy that I had a reason to get up in the morning, and not because I had a god awful nightmare. I was happy because I had found a best mate who gave me a place not to sleep, but to live.'

Sherlock couldn't help but smile now, thrilled that he had made it on John's list of happy things. Always the doctor had the power to surprise him like no one else could.

'I made you happy last year?' and for the first time the detective raised his head and opened his eyes.

The doctor sighed at the man's tone of surprise.

'You _still_ make me happy. There's nothing I wouldn't change about us…well I could have lived without the head in the fridge but everything else was perfectly lovely.'

Sherlock laughed quietly at the face John made.

'John?'

'Yes?'

'You give the best hugs,' the detective stated simply.

The doctor smiled in pleased embarrassment, as he playfully pretend to choke the other man, 'Thanks. Enough mush. What do _you_ want to do for Christmas?

**TBC **


	3. Reverse psychology

**Anote**: Thanks to all for reading and following my story.

...continued

Chapter 3- **Reverse psychology**

'I would rather hear your ideas,' Sherlock replied, wondering why on earth John was asking him for his thoughts! Planning warm and fuzzy occasions were _not_ his area.

'Well since I know it will be a miracle if I don't get sick,' John sighed despondently, 'I was thinking of dropping out of sight, maybe getting away from London all together. Somewhere nice as a treat; where I can stay warm and dry, sleep all day, watch some television, get some room service.'

'Room service?' the detective interrupted him in surprise, 'we're going to a hotel?'

Umm.

John looked down at Sherlock's trusting expression. He would rather be branded with a hot poker, rather than admit he hadn't factored the curly haired man into his plan at all.

'Wouldn't you prefer to stay in London?' John suggested persuasively, 'this vacation might be a little too tame for a person of your lively mind.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 'Is that sarcasm? John I _make _sarcastic remarks, I don't _receive_ them. If you are going to be ill, then I need to be wherever you are.'

He couldn't decipher the strange look that John was giving him. 'What?'

'You should give yourself more credit Sherlock,' the small man explained with a fond smile. 'I think you understand more about Christmas spirit than most people in England.'

John playfully put his finger to his lips to let him know that he would keep it a secret.

'So…where are we going?' the detective asked, not following what John was trying to explain, but accepting it with a mental shrug.

The doctor now graced him with an exasperated look, 'I don't think you fully comprehend my idea Sherl. I _don't_ want to work this holiday.'

'No, I understood that part,' Sherlock reassured, as he turned his head to look at the man kneeling behind him.

'It _means_ that if you want to come along, you can't work either,' the doctor explained sternly, 'no mysteries, no dead bodies…no nothing.'

Sherlock swallowed hard.

What?! Dear god…

What would he do all day long? His beloved hard drive would shrivel up and die!

'One dead body,' Sherlock pleaded, raising his index finger.

But John shook his head with a solemn look. 'No dead bodies. Not one. Can you do this?'

The detective's insides shuddered at the impending days of boredom, 'I can do it.'

John gave him a doubtful stare.

'I can!' the detective snapped, eyebrows drawn together in an annoyed scowl. And right on cue it would seem, the detective's text message system beeped loudly in their ears.

John had to chuckle at the look of intense anguish on his friend's face, as the man forced himself not to peek at his mobile. Eventually, the doctor decided to show mercy and he leaned over to fish the device out of Sherlock's coat pocket.

**Lestrade**: _where the #%$* are you?! I can't keep the tube station closed indefinitely! Get your bony ass down here now!_

Together, the two men stared intently at the new crime photos that were attached. The Christmas holidays had brought yet _another_ depraved citizen forward and currently, that particular Londoner was enthusiastically spreading his brand of cheer, by terrifying the city's commuters.

From the corner of his eye, John could see all the usual tell tale signs as Sherlock excitedly absorbed the minute details in the photograph, which only his gifted eyes could see.

Immediately, John removed his arm from around the man's neck.

There were instances, like now, when it was difficult to have someone like the detective as a best friend, but there was never a moment when he was not proud of Sherlock's abilities. John wished he could go with him in what looked to be a very intriguing case, but not this time. If he didn't take a few days off to baby this cold, he could develop a serious infection.

As such, he forced himself not to react as Sherlock rose almost zombie like, and drifted towards the front door without another word or backward glance.

John wasn't truly upset to find himself alone again. It was just Sherlock's way when a mystery beckoned and in fact, the small doctor was astounded that the detective had offered to leave London, in one of the most 'fertile' periods of murder and suicide in the country. Sherlock must have been truly worried about him as he slept.

In the meantime, as John reviewed his immediate plans, the silence and the gloom in the hallway rolled over him like a heavy weight and he pulled his blanket closer. Maybe he would take a nap before packing their trunks. If Sherlock didn't come back by tonight, he would leave a note for the man to join him when he was done with the new case. But for a long moment, the small man sat on the cold step, trying to pull together enough energy to stand up again. Was he getting a fever? He should have gotten Sherlock to put him back in bed before he left.

Speaking of the detective.

'John!' the man cried out as he ran back into the flat unexpectedly with a panicked expression. It was clear that Sherlock thought he was in huge amount of trouble as he skidded to a wobbly halt in front of him, 'Sorry, you were saying?'

John looked up at him with a huge grin. This couldn't be the same man from last Christmas, who had glued himself into his armchair and looked on in quiet alarm, as the doctor transformed the flat into a twinkling winter wonderland.

Sherlock definitely deserved a nice present this December and John was beginning to have second thoughts about what he bought. His gift was so ….practical. Considering that he always tried to encourage Sherlock to slow down and enjoy small moments, like Frisbee in the park on a sunny Saturday or vanilla ice cream cones on a hot day, John thought he could have made a more 'fun' selection.

'Sherlock, it's fine,' John reassured him as the man solicitously assisted him to stand. 'I am leaving before you get me tangled up in this case but you should stay and help; the commuters of London need you. I'll print out my destination and the directions for you and I will pin it to the fridge door. Did you hear me? The fridge door, don't forget.'

'Is this ….reverse psychology?' Sherlock asked suspiciously, 'if I turn around now and go, will you yell at me later?'

'No it is _not_ reverse psychology,' the doctor laughed in amusement at Sherlock's scowl of confusion, 'and I think you need to stop watching so much crap telly.'

'Does this mean you won't be interested in the autopsy report?' the detective inquired blandly. 'I can send it to your email.'

John hesitated before he caught sight of the mischievous gleam in the man's eye.

'No Sherlock, I am not interested at all,' he lied with a wide smile, quietly laughing at the man's transparent attempt to entrap him into the new investigation.

'I won't be too long,' the detective reassured, 'I will set the officers on the right track and then we can go.'

Carefully, Sherlock monitored the John shaped-bundle as it slowly drifted towards the staircase leading up to the second bedroom. 'I know a "nice" place but not if you are adamant about room service.'

'I am!' John called back.

The detective frowned unhappily at this sideways insult, 'Why are you so insistent? I am perfectly able to keep us both fed!'

'Sherlock, everything you make tastes like chicken.'

The tall man wrinkled his nose in confusion. This was a bad thing?

'Curried lamb should _not_ taste like friend chicken,' the moving heap of blankets complained, 'I don't understand how a brilliant chemist like yourself can't make anything fit to eat! It's a wonder one of us hasn't come down with food poisoning as yet! Take care of yourself and stay warm.'

Sherlock returned his wave before closing the door behind him.

**TBC**

**Anote:** Will John be dragged into the investigation or will Sherlock be good for once?


	4. Exactly what I wanted

**Anote:** Some medical stuff in here. Don't read and eat. I am not a doctor so I have taken some artistic license with the treatment and symptoms.

...continued

Chapter 4-** Exactly what I wanted**

_24 hours later_

Ugh…he was in pain.

Why?

Had he been injured?

_John, help me._

Sherlock's mind sluggishly tried to make sense of all the painful data coming from his right arm, but it was like walking through a snow drift against the wind. He had been sedated. Grrrr…whoever was responsible for this indignity, was about to meet a sticky end!

_Sometime today, John!_

The uncomfortable pinch in his hand finally forced Sherlock's eyes wide open.

Well at least he was warm and safe in his own bed. That was good. The bad part was that his right hand was chained to the rail, with an IV line stuck expertly in his vein.

Sherlock's sudden shriek of outrage so rattled the Detective Inspector that Lestrade dashed into the bedroom, still carrying his breakfast bowl of Rice Krispies.

'Lestrade!' Sherlock hissed with a thunderous look, 'I am glad you are here. You are required to make an arrest!'

The Inspector sucked in a happy breath. Had Sherlock, in his unconscious state, identified their tube station killer?! Excitedly, the police man put down his bowl and grabbed his pen and case book.

'Tell me!'

'Who do you think?!' Sherlock shouted as he rattled his manacled wrist, 'Watson of course! I want him arrested this instant for aggravated assault!'

With a roll of his eyes, Lestrade pulled out a chair and sat down, 'I'll get right on that. How are you?'

The detective's face went through a series of contortions as he struggled to put his many priorities in order. 'Get me out of these chains!'

'No,' the Inspector chirped with delight, 'doctor's orders. Why don't you just lie there and be a good patient for once? It was a Christmas miracle that you didn't roll down the stairs when you fainted. You should try eating on time like the rest of us, stupid folk.'

Sherlock's grey eyes bugged out of his head, 'I fainted? I never faint! Come closer and let me smell your breath. I think you are using something far stronger than milk in that cereal. And where pray did you get Rice Krispies? This is strictly a cocoa puffs establishment!'

'You did pass out yesterday my friend,' Lestrade assured him, as he ran a hand over his unshaven face.

Late last night, Sherlock had quietly stunned everyone at the crime scene when his eyes rolled up in the back of his head as he keeled over. It was only the quick thinking of a young constable that saved the detective from a nasty tumble, down a long flight of metal stairs.

Subsequently, medical people had swarmed all over the fallen man while Lestrade called to inform his doctor. After a rather abrupt exchange (where some unnecessary sharp words were thrown about), the Detective Inspector ordered Sherlock's sorry carcass to be delivered to the doctor in Baker Street. Within minutes, John had tucked him into a bed with an IV line in his hand, bringing much needed mobo- jumbo- insert-complex -medical term here, to the detective's blood stream.

With an embarrassed smile, John had then apologised for his earlier bad language and requested Lestrade to stay with the man, while he went down to the hospital to get his sniffle checked out.

The small doctor had never returned.

'What are you doing?' Sherlock asked sharply, as the inspector unexpectedly put a hand on his shoulder. 'What's wrong?'

Lestrade looked down into his perplexed face. He didn't know how he was going to tell Sherlock this, although from the way the detective was suddenly looking about him, perhaps he didn't need to.

'Where is he?'

'He's not here,' the Inspector informed him quietly.

'Oh really?!' the detective sneered sarcastically, 'I am _so_ glad that I have you here to tell me these things. Where is John?!'

'He's in the hospital.'

As could be expected, Sherlock straight away tried to climb to his feet only to be stopped by the chain, which John had known would have been needed for this exact moment.

'Easy Sherlock, he walked there on his own two feet. He developed some sort of mild lung infection during the night and he's worried about giving it to you and Mrs. Hudson. It's a trade off Sherlock. He knows you would be more comfortable at home so he decided to go to Bart's. He said to tell you not to come. Something about you having a lowered immune something something. Do you want to talk to him?'

Sherlock scowled as he took this all in. He felt fine! John was not spending Christmas in a hospital ward…how ridiculous! As soon as Mrs. Hudson left for her sister's, he would go and bring his doctor back to Baker Street. Silly man!

Impatiently he waited for Lestrade to dial John's mobile.

The two men jumped when the device rang unexpectedly under Sherlock's pillow and with his free hand, the detective retrieved it from under the folds.

Lestrade studied the man's face, as the curly hairled man absently fingered the keypad. 'He must have forgotten it.'

'Under my pillow?' Sherlock murmured doubtfully as he glanced around his room and side tables, 'I think not. He left this here for me to find.'

'What are you thinking?'

'John has my mobile.'

'What? Why?'

Sherlock quickly sifted through the possibilities in his head.

'Did anyone take him to the hospital or did he go on his own?' the detective barked.

Quickly he dialled his own number as Lestrade frowned at this question. What was Sherlock saying? John wasn't at the hospital? The inspector took the phone and activated the speaker function so that he could also hear in the conversation.

'Sherlock?'

John sounded terrible and the detective and the inspector exchanged a worried glance as they heard the rattle in his breathing. A mild infection indeed!

'Why do you have my phone?' Sherlock asked quietly.

'It seemed like a good idea at the time,' John replied just as softly, 'you have no messages, by the way.'

The detective weighed his next words carefully. He didn't need to be an invincible super crime solver to detect the emotional mine field that was infront of him.

'You took my mobile because you know I have deactivated my GPS,' Sherlock deduced in a mild voice, 'This means you don't want me to know where you are which is a mistake. Suppose your infection worsens? You are not usually so reckless, my friend.'

'As if you care!' John retorted sarcastically. The doctor sounded so tired and heart sore that it pulled at something deep inside the detective.

Lestrade's eyes widened in shock, as he took in the look of pain on Sherlock's face. John's doubts that Sherlock actually cared about him, had hit the detective like a physical blow. Silently, the inspector gave the man on the bed a supportive look of concern.

'You're upset?' Sherlock prodded his flat mate gently.

'Really, what ever gave you that idea?' John snorted, 'do you think I enjoy people bringing you to me looking like death warmed over!'

The two men listening winced as John's words were lost in a cacophony of hacking coughs.

'Don't talk, let me,' Sherlock pleaded, 'I was chasing a lead and i forgot to eat but I feel fine now. Thanks to you.'

'John he looks great!' Lestrade chimed in helpfully, unwilling to sit there and not try to help the two men whom he had shared so much friendship and danger.

'Hey Greg, Happy holidays. Thanks for helping us out.' John said in a perfectly amiable voice. Sherlock was crestfallen by this marked difference in the doctor's manner.

'Happy Holidays John,' the inspector replied genially, 'you're missing quite a case here. Why don't you let me swing by and pick you up?'

'Thanks, but I would rather sit this one out,' he said in his usual gracious manner. 'Sherlock?'

The detective perked up happily. 'I'm here.'

'I've arranged with Angelo to cook dinner for you and Molly tonight.'

'What?! Why?' he snapped in displeasure, 'for the seventeenth time, I do _not_ need a date!'

'It's not a date, you idiot. You need to eat and if you don't eat, Angelo has promised to sit on your chest and Molly will put another IV in your hand, and she will_ keep_ doing that every day until you eat!'

Lestrade and Sherlock both gawked in astonishment at the uncharacteristic forcefulness of the doctor's plan.

'You're lucky that there are still some people out there, whom you haven't completely disgusted,' John remarked nastily. 'You couldn't give me a break, just for a few days?!'

The fresh anger and disappointment in the man's voice, made Sherlock turn his head away.

'Easy John,' Lestrade warned him with a murmur.

'Sherlock I'm sorry. I'm just so tired.' John muttered sorrowfully, 'I need to sleep. God I promised myself I wouldn't argue with you. Please forgive me. I didn't mean what I said…I am ...I am not myself.'

'It's fine,' the detective replied in a whisper.

John, realising it was not fine, groped around for something more pleasant to say.

'Can I give you your Christmas present?' the doctor asked in a smiling voice.

Good gad! Had he slept through Christmas too!

'What day is it?!' Sherlock asked Lestrade in a sudden panic. He still had to stop in the store to get gift wrap! Curse it!

'Relax, today is the twenty first.'

'No John, I _don't_ want my Christmas present now. I would rather you give me in person.'

_Just how long is your vacation going to be, anyhow?!_

'I want you to have it early,' John pressed stubbornly, 'Greg, be a sport and get the package behind his bed.'

The inspector looked a little anxious but obediently, he retrieved the large shopping bag.

'I got special permission from the Yard for this Sherlock,' the doctor explained. 'Please wear it. Do it for me.'

Startled, Lestrade held up the pearl grey bullet proof vest for a moment before he smiled, and turned it around so that Sherlock could see the words _consulting detective_ printed out in big bold letters.

'Sherl?' the doctor asked when the man's voice did come through. 'Does he like it? Hello?'

'John he loves it,' Lestrade reported with a small chortle, 'you should see the stunned look on his face! I think you made his year.'

'Thanks Greg,' he acknowledged softly, 'Can you give us a minute?'

Lestrade gave the detective a supportive lift of his eyebrows, before leaving with his bowl of contraband cereal.

'John?'

'I'm here.'

'You don't sound so good. Are you sure…'

'I'm sure,' the man cut him off, 'Just concentrate on the case, wear your Christmas present and I'll talk to you after. It's all fine. If you can take my phone messages for me that would be good but not necessary. You can let it go to voicemail. Please don't call me. Just give me a few days of peace. Good bye Sherlock.'

The sudden sound of dial tone made the detective flinch and for a long while after, he stared unseeingly at the ceiling above.

As Sherlock grabbed the most wonderful bullet proof vest ever made, and clutched it close to his chest, he wondered at the heaviness he felt pressing down on his arms and legs. He had his investigation and John had his vacation. They both had exactly what they wanted for Christmas.

Technically, shouldn't he be happy now?

**TBC**


	5. A pair of kind blue eyes

**Anote:** I believe that John would have learnt a thing or two about concealment from spending so much time with Sherlock, so I have not dwelt on that aspect overly too much in the chapter.

My thoughts and best wishes to all who are affected by the severe weather systems in both the UK and North America.

Chapter 5- **A pair of kind blue eyes**

'Good evening ladies and gentlemen,' Lestrade greeted the throngs of waiting media, 'thank you for coming.'

It didn't matter that it was Christmas Eve night; a good crime brought them out in a ghoulish horde.

The Inspector shuffled his papers before him, preparing to read a statement regarding the successful conclusion of the case, when a sudden rustle went through the crowd. A rapid succession of camera flashes started to snap in a tidal wave of sound and motion, and Lestrade looked up quickly.

With a tight smile and an encouraging nod, he beckoned for Sherlock to take the podium.

Naturally, the press went crazy and as one they climbed to their feet with a barrage of random questions; stunned that the normally camera shy celebrity had decided to take centre station.

'SIR, THIS WAY!' the photographers shouted, jostling to get the best angle to showcase the man's handsome features.

'Mr. Holmes, where's John?!' another yelled out happily, 'Can we get him up with you for a photo?'

Where is John?

A very good question, Sherlock thought as he struggled to keep his countenance neutral. He had been tempted to call his mobile again, but wanted to have that in reserve when he had exhausted all his other avenues of quiet investigation. Sherlock didn't want John to feel as though he was trying to back him into a corner. He had provoked the man enough for this month already. And besides, the doctor had promised to call as soon as the case was done.

'Dr. Watson is resting from a cold,' Sherlock replied engagingly to the crowd before him, 'which explains why I took so many extra days to solve the case. His expertise was sorely missed.'

'When will the blog be ready?!' another reporter yelled, when Sherlock pointed to him.

Under cover of the podium, the detective reached into his pocket and grasped the phone that John had left behind. But the cold device gave no comfort, not when its owner continued to remain stubbornly silent. He looked straight into the row of television cameras in front of him, seeing not their unfriendly one eyed stare, but instead a pair of kind blue eyes that were hopefully watching him now.

'I will let the doctor know that you are waiting eagerly for his summary. They are quite good aren't they?'

This was met with an appreciative laugh and a round of applause by the clueless audience, as Sherlock handed back control of the microphone to Lestrade.

After taking a few questions, the inspector in turn handed over to his second and hurried to the back of the police station. A group of motionless people stood huddled together, staring off in different directions.

'Anything?' Lestrade whispered to Mrs Hudson, as he threw a comforting arm across her thin shoulders.

She shook her head disappointingly, 'Are are my boys fighting? Sherlock says they are not fighting…but it seems like it doesn't it? Oh, they know how it upsets me so. I hope John is alright. What could have come over him?'

At this point, Sally and Anderson also came around the corner eager for good news, but to their regret there was none to be had. A few constables had drifted towards the group, swelling their numbers even more, all anxious to know where the small doctor was. The alarming report that John had left the hospital against medical advice, and that Sherlock was looking for him had caused those who knew the two friends, a distinctly uneasy feeling.

As the minutes continued to tick by, one by one they turned to stare at Sherlock as he stood alone, gazing out unseeingly down the street. It was strange to see that empty spot at the man's side.

The night was cold, and the detective stuffed his hands deep into his pockets to warm up his ice cold fingers. He had forgotten his gloves.

_The case is over John. I am fine, thanks to all your mysterious potions. It's time to call. Your admiring public awaits. How will you write the blog if we don't talk?!_

Dispiritedly, Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his forehead for a minute against the lamp post next to him. The ice cold surface felt pleasant against his skin; numbing his brain.

_How quaint…a tradition of ruined Christmases. Maybe you were right to get away. My friend, are you alright? Are you quite recovered? I hope you are…it's beautiful outside. I hit Anderson in the back of the head with a snowball, just for you._

Sherlock sighed, as he fought to keep his panic at bay.

_I know you don't want to see me John. That's fine. Just let me know that you alright. Let me know that you are capable of making it to a telephone. John please, don't do this to me. You said you would call. _

The little group looked on curiously as a sleek, expensive car parked alongside them. Although an unknown woman stepped out of its depths, Sherlock's quick steps made them hopeful.

The detective took the small phone she held out to him.

'Mycroft!'

'Nothing Sherlock,' his brother replied gently, 'he hasn't contacted me and I have no new information.'

Sherlock collapsed with a soft moan on the roof of the car, bowed by this failure of his best source of information.

'There is no need to worry,' Mycroft offered compassionately, correctly deducing his little brother's reaction. 'John is a very capable man and he's not actually missing. He _will_ call.'

Sherlock smiled feebly, as he suddenly realised that his brother was trying to comfort him. Should he thank him? No that would give Mycroft heart failure, and then it was _he_ that would be in mummy's bad books.

'If he wasn't so ill last time we spoke,' Sherlock confessed, 'I wouldn't be at all worried. Where could he be?! I am going to try and call my mobile and see if he answers. Should I do that?'

The detective couldn't remember the last time he and his brother had exchanged so many words that were not work related. It was ….nice, for want of a better word. Maybe there was something to all this Christmas spirit nonsense that everyone kept rambling on about.

'It's close to midnight Sherlock, maybe's he asleep. I would wait till morning. John must be with someone, because none of his credit or debit cards have been used,' Mycroft reasoned. 'Did you check that doctor friend of his?'

Twice.

The second time, Sarah had called the police and Lestrade had to bail him out of prison.

Sherlock activated/hacked into John's email account, and quickly scrolled through his inbox for any information. Word of John's illness had spread like wildfire and it was surprising to Sherlock how many people had called and emailed, requesting information and leaving best wishes. Furtively, the man glanced over his shoulder at the group behind him.

'What are you thinking?' Mycroft asked as the silence stretched on.

'I am thinking that there are many people that John could live with besides me if he wanted to,' Sherlock replied humbly.

'A little puzzle for you to figure out while you wait?' Mycroft suggested archly.

Instead of distracting his bleak thoughts, the little joke made Sherlock's blood pressure soar into his head. He clenched the tiny phone in his hand so tightly that he could hear the casing begin to crack.

Puzzles, riddles, mysteries; they were his reason for breathing! But now John was out there, possibly seriously ill, at the mercy of God knew what or who, because of Sherlock's obsession with the brain work.

'You always have to prove that you are cleverer than everyone else!' John's voice echoed sharply in his memory.

He didn't feel very clever now, not when a simple puzzle as to where his best mate was living, couldn't be solved.

'I am not in England now but I can be there in a few hours,' Mycroft offered hesitantly, 'we can look for him together if you are so concerned Sherlie.'

Sherlock snorted loudly. His brother hadn't called him that stupid pet name since primary school.

'Yes. Please come. If he doesn't call by breakfast, I have every intention of reporting him missing.'

_**Beep**__._

'Can you hold?' the detective requested in a tight voice, 'I have a video call coming through.'

'This is no time for politeness!' Mycroft bellowed, for once betraying his true feelings, 'get to it man!'

Sherlock turned towards the waiting group and even though they all surged upon him at this point, no one disputed Mrs Hudson right to stand at Sherlock's elbow.

However, the diminutive landlady looked thoroughly disappointed at the unfamiliar face that appeared, but Sherlock's reaction was the complete opposite. The detective's whole expression changed and he laughed merrily. Never had he been so happy to see such an unusual pair of ears in his life!

'Henry!' he shouted, 'how the devil are you?! Is John there?'

This enthusiastic greeting was wasted though, as their ex-client from Baskerville had the call on mute. The young millionaire looked troubled and unhappy, as he stealthily walked though the corridors of his beautiful home, and peeked into a bedroom.

'FOUND!' Mrs Hudson cried out joyfully; clapping her hands in delight at the much hoped for sight of a sleeping John, all swaddled up in a set of thick blankets. A sigh of relief went through everyone, and hugs and handshakes were exchanged freely to release the sudden rush of emotion. Even Anderson patted Sherlock gleefully on the shoulder, so swept up was he in the moment. Thank goodness! With all that was wrong in the world, it would not do to be missing one of their own on Christmas day.

'_I am already heading to the train station,_' Sherlock texted. '_Thank you and a very Happy Christmas.'_

Henry smiled happily now as he read the message, relieved to be free of the burden of this perplexing arrangement.

The three of them had kept in contact through postcards and such, while Henry took a foreign tour as recommended by his doctors after his ordeal in Dartmoor. He had just returned to England, and had been only too happy when John had shown up unexpectedly on his doorstep a few days ago to spend Christmas. He couldn't understand though, why the small doctor refused to call Sherlock up from London. Henry believed that when you were feeling poorly, there was something wonderful in having the person who knew exactly how to make your cup of tea close by, even if Sherlock was one of the oddest chaps the millionaire had ever met.

Henry waved good bye, before switching off the connection.

**TBC** (my final two chapters will be all fluff, as promised)


	6. A message for all time

Chapter 6**- A message for all time**

'No, don't wake,' a soft voice pleaded as gentle hands held down his head and shoulders on the pillow. 'Go back to sleep. Please, don't wake.'

John's mind was too fuzzy to actually understand what the murmur was begging him to do, but his brain had been conditioned to respond to that voice instantly, no matter the situation. As such, the doctor pushed away the weight and turned over to switch on his bed side lamp.

'Sherlock!' he cried in shock.

Swiftly, the detective put out one hand as if to prevent the man from coming any closer.

'Goodness, what time is it?' John yelped as he sat up, peering out the windows at the darkness beyond, 'I told Henry we would call you in the morning. I can't believe you are here!'

The doctor gave the man sitting on the edge of his chair an encouraging smile, 'alright there Sherlock?'

'I didn't come here to upset you,' the man stated defensively, looking very unsure of his welcome. 'I just needed to see you.'

Before he could be refused, Sherlock reached out one hand to touch the side of John's face, and then quickly rose to move away. 'I'll let you get back to your vacation. I'm so glad that you are better.'

The doctor whipped out a hand to grab his wrist.

'It's alright Sherl,' John insisted quietly, 'we're alright. Please stay. It's okay. Sit. That's it. You sit right there.'

The detective resumed his seat.

John could tell he was still wary, but he met his penetrating grey eyes with a pleasant smile; patiently waiting for the other man to relax. Friendship wasn't easy for Sherlock. The reclusive detective had enormous difficulty navigating their stupid insignificant foul ups; choosing to just ignore any sticky bits all together and just pretend everything was alright. Admittedly, John encouraged him in this lazy behaviour because it was just easier, but perhaps in the New Year this should change. If something really challenging in their relationship cropped up, Sherlock would have limited ability to cope and might resort to something extreme.

But for now, John put all thoughts of the future aside as he enjoyed the here and now. He was practically bouncing around, as he experienced the happy thrill of meeting someone whom you thought was hours away, with no hope or chance of seeing them a moment sooner. What a wonderful Christmas surprise!

Of course, Henry was a nice enough fellow, but a bit ...tedious, to use a Sherlockism, and John been eagerly looking forward to when his flat mate would arrive and keep him company. Sleeping all day had been wonderful, but he had reached that restless point where he was well enough to be awake all the time, but not strong enough to go outside and keep busy. Recovery was boring!

John did a mental eye roll. He had noticed of late, that the voice in his head was starting to sound like Sherlock. He would have to keep a close watch on that.

However, even though the doctor hadn't been at all concerned about meeting Sherlock again, it was clear from the set of his mouth and the tension around his eyes, that the detective was at a loss as to what to say or do next. John nibbled guilty on the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he needed to do some apologising also.

Well, there was only one way to solve this.

'I am waiting for my Christmas hug,' John reminded him cheerfully, opening one arm to the man.

Automatically Sherlock responded, and although it wasn't exactly the most comfortable way to hold someone, John persevered until he felt the tension fall away from the detective's shoulders.

'Happy Christmas John,' the man greeted him, enthusiastically returning the hug now.

Ow.

It would appear that Sherlock was very fond of the Christmas present that the doctor had given him a few days ago.

'Happy Christmas, Sherl,' John mumbled, as his face pressed uncomfortably against Sherlock's bullet proof vest that the doctor didn't realise the man was wearing, under his heavy coat.

A light tap at the door made the two men look up, and Henry poked his head in.

John's volunteer nurse for the last few days, looked stunned at how his patient was sitting half on, half off Sherlock's lap, 'Oh. Right. I'll just give you two a minute, shall I?'

'What? No come back…we're not a couple!' John yelled in annoyance, while the detective snorted with evil laughter. As he gently returned John to his pillows, Sherlock smiled fondly at the man's aggravated expression. It was strange the little things that endeared you to a person.

'I think I missed you,' Sherlock admitted with a puzzled look, as he drew the armchair closer to the bed.

_So did I._

John laughed, 'You don't have to sound so surprised at it! Congratulations Sherlock on another successful case. Tell me all. Don't leave anything out!'

The detective put his fingertips together and regarded his friend's eager expression with a raised eyebrow, 'Perhaps we can discuss that at another time.'

He chuckled quietly to himself as John's jaw fell open in surprise.

'It's Christmas morning after all!' Sherlock protested vigorously with a mischievous grin, as he removed his heavy coat and kicked off his shoes, 'Can't you give it a rest?'

By this time, John had one hand pressed to his stomach as he laughed at his friend's foolish banter, 'No. Stop. Don't make me laugh.'

A series of coughs put an end to the light moment between them, and anxiously Sherlock hovered over him with the glass of water that was perched on the side table.

'I'm fine,' the doctor assured him, 'a little sore from coughing all the time like this. How are? You look well. Any dizzy spells?'

They swapped medical stats for a while before falling silent again. But it was a comfortable silence; the silence at the end of the day when you were waiting to feel sleepy enough to go to bed. All was right with the world again.

'What do you think we will be doing next year?' the detective asked as he happily slouched in his chair, and put his sock clad feet up on the edge of the bed.

John stared at the ceiling above, 'I don't _even_ want to speculate.'

Again Henry tapped on the door, and after a moment of hesitation, their host walked in bringing fresh towels and blankets. At John's insistence, the men made up the sofa in John's room for Sherlock to spend the rest of the night. If Sherlock had not yet gotten sick from whatever John had, he most likely would not fall ill at all.

'Some tea?' Henry politely offered, as he took in his new guest's travel worn appearance.

'Nothing for him with caffeine in it,' John answered knowledgably with a shake of his head, 'not at this hour. But if it is not too much trouble, can I have something hot to eat? I'm starving all of a sudden.'

Henry clapped Sherlock heartily on the shoulder. Already Sherlock was having a positive effect as Henry knew he would. Immersed as he was in his own troubles at the time, the young millionaire had observed the two friends sufficiently enough to understand how they fed off each other's opposite energies.

'John, are you very tired?' Sherlock asked hesitantly as Henry left the room to organise some food. 'I have your present. I want to be first this year!'

John looked down at the small, beautifully wrapped box in the man's hand.

'Did you wrap that?' he asked with a small grin as he pointed at the box. Sherlock was very proud of his gift wrapping abilities and took every opportunity to show off.

'Why of course,' he replied carelessly, 'I pulled it together in no time at all.'

The doctor's eyes twinkled humorously at this typical lack of humility. Carefully he turned over the gift box and then measured its weight in his palm, in the time honoured tradition of trying to guess its contents.

'I can't guess. Give me a small hint,' John pleaded.

But stubbornly Sherlock refused. 'Don't shake it too hard.'

_Something fragile then. What could Sherlock be given him that was fragile? Please don't be a body part; please don't be a body part._

The doctor looked down at the golden disc as he anxiously opened the lid.

_What was this?_

'On my,' John murmured as he picked up the antique, waist coat pocket watch, 'Oh my goodness. I love it!'

Sherlock smiled smugly. He ruled.

'It's just like the ones that a true gentleman wears in all those Westerns you like to look at,' the detective explained. Sherlock leaned over and closed his fingers tightly around the doctor's hand which held the watch. 'Can you feel it?'

Of course. Unlike most modern day wrist watches, the faint ticking was like a small heartbeat in his palm.

'A timepiece like this is classic, strong, enduring, necessary,' Sherlock described as he released his grip, 'just as you are.'

John struggled to draw in a deep, calming breath as he read the engraving, '_J.H. Watson, my friend_.'

'Thank you,' the doctor replied in a broken voice, as he looked up with a breathless smile; a bit overwhelmed by these intense sentiments. Unlike, the dozens of text messages they exchanged during any random day, this message was chiselled in gold and would stand for all time.

'There there,' Sherlock mumbled awkwardly as he took one corner of John's blanket, and wiped away the solitary tear that rolled down the doctor's cheek. 'What's all this fuss about?'

'I've never met anyone like you, Sherlock,' John explained in a sudden rush, as he reached for some tissue, 'and I am glad that you're my friend too, even though I may not act like it all the time. Promise me that you will always remember that.'

Sherlock looked a little uncomfortable with all this excessive emotion, but nodded his head vigorously. He was relieved to see his friend's smile return.

'But you should have put your initials,' John complained as he enfolded him into another hug. The doctor had already made up his mind that he would take it back and do it himself. The message didn't seem complete without the man's characteristic SH at the end.

Suddenly, John's stomach rumbled loudly and Sherlock looked down at it with a fierce scowl. Immediately he sprang to his feet and stuck his bushy head into the corridor, 'Where is the hot food?! What kind of shoddy help is this?!'

'Sherlock!' John hissed frantically, as he blew his nose hastily into some tissue. The man couldn't speak to their host any which way he liked. The doctor was just about to explain this to his flat mate, when John heard the faint sounds of a woman's laughter coming along the hall.

'Tell me you didn't drag Mrs. Hudson out here in the middle of the night!' the doctor scolded him despairingly, 'It's Christmas Sherlock!'

The detective turned back with a frown and shook his head.

'There you are!' Sherlock sharply reprimanded the woman in the corridor, 'did you come here to help or make silly faces at the villagers?'

Unaffected by the scolding, Molly skirted around the tall man's irate form and tripped into the room with a bright smile. In her strong hands, she brought in a tray loaded with incredible smelling food and drink, much to the delight of John's hungry little stomach. Close on her heels came Henry, who was staring at her as if he had never seen a woman before.

'Molly?!' John cried with a shout as he sat up in astonishment. Was there no end to the happy surprises today?

'Happy Christmas John,' she chirped happily, so pleased to see his beautiful blue eyes once again looking at her. She had peeped in earlier and was disappointed to find him still fast asleep.

The woman knelt infront of him, so that he could easily reach over and place a kiss on the top of her head.

'Don't come too close. I don't want you to get sick,' he whispered to her kindly, 'Thank you. Thank you for coming.'

'Oh…' she stammered bashfully, pleased at such a warm greeting, 'I don't have any one that would miss me, so it's alright. No need to thank me and it's a bit of an adventure isn't it?'

In the meantime, Sherlock had grabbed a bowl of cinnamon sprinkled oatmeal from off the tray, and was giving it a vigorous stir.

'Are you an only child Molly?' Henry asked timidly, staring at her face with undisguised admiration.

The detective inserted a full heaping tablespoon into John's mouth with such enthusiasm, that it caused the poor man to choke.

'Yes,' she replied, turning to him with a warm and open smile.

'So am I!' the young millionaire replied brightly, as he crept closer to sit on the floor with her.

In the background, Sherlock and John were having a vicious tug of war for control of the cereal spoon. The detective was pleased at the amount of strength in John's arm and graciously he surrendered the field of battle.

'Goodness, you are alone here in this lonely place?!' Molly inquired compassionately.

'You get use to it,' Henry informed her in a stammer, charmed at such a sociable interest in his affairs, 'I have some cousins in America though who are like siblings, and they call.'

'I wish I was an only child!' Sherlock quipped; mouth turning down with a frown as the woman unexpectedly turned her back on him.

Molly reached out and patted their host's knee, 'Well this year we will have a splendid time all together!'

Henry was transported into sudden heaven by such a wonderful description of the days to come, and John smiled quietly to himself as he gobbled up his cereal. Their host was completely besotted even though Molly, in her shyness, wasn't aware of it as yet.

'Oh no,' she exclaimed suddenly as she looked down at her tray, 'I have forgotten the biscuits.'

She excused herself and the three of them sat there staring after her.

'Goodness Watson,' Henry finally exclaimed, 'are all the girls in London like that? How does one get any work done?!'

John had to agree, sometimes it was extremely difficult.

'She seems _very_ amiable,' Henry prattled on without waiting for an answer to his question, 'is this correct?'

The doctor cut his eyes to the left as Sherlock scowled in confusion. 'I think she is quite delightful, don't you agree Sherl?'

With a low growl of displeasure, the detective narrowed his eyes at John's teasing smile and Henry's interested expression face.

'Quite delightful,' the detective agreed surprisingly, 'I especially admire her ability to cut up dead people with a saw. Her skill is exquisite.'

John sucked in a shocked breath, 'SHERLOCK!'

Calmly the detective picked imaginary lint off his bulletproof, as Henry fled from the room.

**TBC**

**Anote: **Merry Christmas to all my readers. Sherlock has promised to be on his best behaviour for the duration of the story :)


	7. Lonely but not alone

**Anote**: Don't forget to check out the Sherlock Holmes mini episode on youtube.

Chapter 7- **Lonely but not alone**

Six strawberries stood in a neat little row on the cutting board, waiting for their turn to be quartered. Contemplatively, Henry stared at them wondering if this would be enough, when he felt someone's hot breath on his neck.

'Good morning, Sherlock,' he greeted the man pleasantly as he readied his knife for slicing.

'What are you doing?' the detective hissed in an unfriendly voice.

Henry sighed quietly, anticipating that Sherlock was about to say something dreadfully impolite. 'I am preparing John's breakfast.'

A gurgling sound came from the detective as Sherlock struggled to formulate a civil reply. 'I am perfectly able to cook for _my_ friend.'

Without further resistance, Henry put down his things and stepped to one side. He was much too gracious a host to complain about being rudely shoved out his kitchen and besides, perhaps it was best not to argue with a man wearing a flowered apron over his bullet proof vest.

The young man walked over to where John lay, propped up in a mound of warm blankets and pillows on the downstairs sofa. The doctor had the best seat in the house, one that was near the lit fireplace and commanded a view of the kitchen and the snow covered garden outside. However, as the millionaire made his way over to the doctor, he bent over to pick up several pieces of gift paper that littered the floor.

'I'm sorry about that,' John said quickly, 'Sherl will get the rubbish in a bit. You can just leave it all on the floor.'

Early that morning, Sherlock had dragged out a large sack of presents like a grumpy Santa Claus, and the doctor's arms were currently filled with the many gifts that had come down from London.

'There is no need to apologise,' the man assured him affably, 'all this paper tells me, is that my friend John Watson, is much loved.'

A great clatter arose from the kitchen as the detective dropped a pan, '_your _friend?!'

If looks could kill, poor Henry would be dead now.

'Less talking and more food preparation,' John diverted Sherlock's attention before any more provocative words could be exchanged. 'I am quite ready for breakfast.'

With a distracted cluck, the detective bent his head to the task once again, with more goodwill than actual skill.

Henry gave John a friendly wink of thanks and left the room, wishing to afford the two men a chance to enjoy each other's company after so many days apart. He would never forget the look of utter relief on Sherlock's face last night, when he finally saw John with his own two eyes. Watson was no better. In his restless sleep, he had called out to his flatmate several nights in a row. There was something special between the two men; an unshakeable and deeply loving bond, and it made Henry quite envious in the quiet of his soul. He would live and die to have a friend like that.

Finally, breakfast was ready and the detective carefully manoeuvred the tray on to the small coffee table.

The doctor bunched up a bit to make some space for Sherlock, and was pleased when the man decided to grab one of his blankets, and make himself comfortable at his side. With a gracious smile, John accepted his fruit laden cereal with thanks but wrinkled his nose at the steaming mush in Sherlock's cup. From where he sat, it smelt and looked like puréed rice, beans and chicken (which wasn't something pleasant to see at all!)

'Cheers,' Sherlock said, and the two men lightly tapped their breakfast dishes together. As the doctor sedately crunched on his meal, Sherlock took a deep breath, pinched his nose and swallowed his breakfast in several distasteful gulps. It took three cups of tea after that, for Sherlock to be sociable again.

John forced himself not to laugh.

He didn't care how or what food Sherlock was eating, he was just pleased that he was making such an effort to be good. As such, the doctor was sorely tempted to throw his arms around him, and squeeze the man into a tight hug. He didn't though. There was only so much of that sort of thing that Sherlock could handle, before he scurried away and locked himself in a room.

The two men then spent the next half hour, quietly going through all their missed text messages and voice mails on their respective mobiles. Sherlock was soon done with his pile and at the doctor's request, was sending a standard Happy Christmas text message greeting, to anyone who had left a message for John.

'How do you keep up correspondence with so many people?' Sherlock complained with annoyance, as he skilfully depressed the tiny keys, 'I don't know half of these names.'

In fact, Sherlock did know all these people, but had stuck the information haphazardly around in his hard drive; preventing their easy retrieval.

'I maintain all these friends with great effort,' John explained with a distracted smile, still busy perusing through his many emails.

Sherlock was about to make a sharp retort but was interrupted by a sudden shriek of laughter. The two friends quickly turned to look out the floor to ceiling window. John shook his head with a resigned sigh, as Henry chased Molly all over the garden with a snowball. _Someone_ was having a perfectly splendid time, this Christmas.

'John, are you coming back with me to London?' the detective asked without warning, still staring at the scene of winter play infront of him, 'you seem to enjoy living in the lap of luxury.'

When no response came, Sherlock turned to him quickly in alarm.

'Are you sure it is me that you want to ask that question to?' the doctor replied with a teasing smile.

The detective glowered, 'your attempts at match making are as subtle as an elephant in a flower bed, Watson. Please desist from such nonsense.'

'You haven't answered my question,' John reminded him sweetly.

'You haven't answered mine!'

'Yes. I am coming back with you,' the doctor finally relented. 'I am not quite ready to retire from the battlefield as yet and don't worry about Molly, she's a city girl.'

Sherlock grinned smugly into his cup of tea.

'Not to say that she wouldn't say no to a repeat visit here,' John added mischievously. A little prick of jealously might be a good thing for his friend to feel. Sherlock was far too apt to under appreciate Molly's value as a friend and as a woman. 'Henry's home is quite beautiful!'

'I have a house by the sea which is much nicer!' Sherlock announced with a mutinous scowl.

John's gawked in shock. Sherlock had another house?! The man had said he knew a place where they could go to get out of London, but never did the doctor imagine something like this. The detective _could _have mentioned this last July, when they were roasting like two turkeys in the flat!

'When you say a house?' John hastened to clarify, 'Do you mean with a proper floor and plumbing etc.?'

'Yes, yes,' the detective snapped impatiently, 'it's been in my family for generations. Ten bedrooms, eight baths and so forth. Would you like to go?'

_In a heartbeat._

'You know I would,' John replied in an emphatic voice. A little sea bathing would be something wonderful to look forward to next year.

Immediately Sherlock sprang to his feet. 'Fantastic! I will collect Molly, you call a taxi.'

With a snort of laughter, John pulled him back down on the couch. 'Sherlock, we are not leaving now! There are no trains today.'

The man looked disappointed but accepted this decision quietly. John shouldn't travel as yet or he might risk putting back his tremendous recovery. Sherlock still didn't like the fact that Henry seemed to have taken such a liking to his two friends though. Couldn't he go off and find some mates of his own?!

With a frown, the detective again stood and planted himself in the middle of the picture window to investigate the matter further.

John rolled his eyes in exasperation as he wrapped himself up and moved over to stand in the corner near the window, 'Sherlock! What are you doing? Come to one side. You can't mind other people's private business like this.'

'What? Why not?' Sherlock inquired, quite puzzled, 'Isn't that what we do for a living?'

'Well yes, technically speaking,' the doctor replied, before he caught hold of Sherlock's apron strap and pulled him closer, 'but not in situations like this!'

Together they peeked at the man and the woman in the garden.

'John I feel ridiculous,' Sherlock whined, 'we're like two old biddies on the telly spying on the neighbours.'

'Shush,' John berated him, straining his ears to hear.

Their two friends outside were having an intense conversation, judging from the look on Henry's face. Molly looked only politely interested, as she listened.

'What do you think they are talking about?' John asked in a stage whisper

'Oh, the usual lies men and women tell each other,' Sherlock suggested with a careless sneer.

The detective was completely startled when from out of nowhere it seem; John shoved him hard against the wall. The doctor's eyes glittered with fierce anger and sharp regret. 'John, what?!'

'Don't …just don't,' the man warned him in a strained voice. 'I don't _want_ to hear you talk that way. Not _every_ woman who says they care, is lying to you.'

'When has Molly ever lied to me? I would know!'

'You know damn well I am not referring to Molly,' the doctor replied, loosening his tight grip on the man's arm, as he forced himself to pull it together.

_Irene. _

'I know you cared about her, in your own way' John remarked, as he placed a more gentle hand against his chest this time, 'Did you…did you love her?'

Silence.

Maybe, he shouldn't have brought this up. Sherlock was giving him his stone face.

'She wasn't real, you know,' the doctor said softly, as he moved to embrace the man across his back. He was relieved that the detective didn't push him away.

'Wasn't real?' Sherlock asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

'What was that phrase she liked to use?' John asked rhetorically, heartened that Sherlock seemed open to the discussion, 'I know what he likes. She was a chameleon, changing colour to suit the prey she was stalking. After a while, a person like that has no idea who or what they are. Hopefully, she is at peace wherever she is now.'

Sherlock smiled faintly at the compassion and sorrow in John's voice. It was more than she deserved. The whole world believed that she was dead, and although Sherlock knew the man at his side could be trusted, it was far less dangerous for him to be kept in the dark. In any case, Sherlock had given her his word that he would take her secret to his grave, as long as she never returned to England.

'A most succinct summary Watson,' he replied warmly, as he looked down at his small friend with a look of awe. After their shouting match a few days ago, he believed it would be impossible to have a civil conversation about last Christmas.

'You didn't do anything wrong Sherl,' John added quickly, wanting to say it all in case Sherlock walked away. 'You were a good friend to her when she was in trouble and she shoved it back in your face. You shouldn't be so unforgiving with yourself. Don't let this change you into someone bitter. Please.'

The detective snorted quietly under his breath. The two of them were not seeing the situation in the same way, but he was happy for this opportunity to speak.

'It would be easier to forgive myself as you so quaintly put it, if you forgive me first. I am truly sorry that I spoilt your Christmas last year. It wasn't my intention.'

John sighed. 'There's nothing to forgive. You are not the first and you will not be the last man, to be a little confused by a woman's motives. I just don't want you to close off yourself. It is …painful to me when I see you push people away.'

Absently, the two of them peered at the couple outside again, as they inwardly processed their conversation. Molly leaned over and gave her host a hug before walking away, leaving Henry standing there looking forlorn.

'You love me a lot don't you John?' Sherlock asked softly, in that unexpected way of his that was one of his trademarks.

John chuckled in surprise, 'well I wouldn't put it in quite that way, but yes.'

'Do you remember that night at Angelo's, when I thought you were trying to ask me out?

'Yes.'

'I can't believe it's taken you all this time to admit the way you feel about me,' Sherlock with a sympathetic tut and an impish grin, as he placed his hand dramatically over his heart, 'I don't know what to say. I don't think I have blushed this much in years.'

John propped himself against the wall as he shook with suppressed laughter. 'Sherl, please don't make me laugh like this. You're killing me.'

Sherlock soon turned serious again. 'I trust that when some woman has your back against the wall, you will remember this conversation today. Come to me, don't do anything foolish and I will help you. If there's a baby in the middle of it, bring that too.'

'You think some woman is going to take advantage of me?'

'You are a likely candidate,' Sherlock confessed, as he gestured towards the window, 'You are not as obvious as Henry but your heart is lonely.'

'Maybe I _am_ lonely…but I don't feel alone,' John revealed, bumping his shoulder against Sherlock in a friendly gesture.

Sherlock smiled as he gently tapped his shoulder against John's in return. One to another, they understood each other perfectly.

Suddenly Henry turned his head towards the window and the two men froze in place; properly caught in the act. For a moment, everyone stared at each other stupidly. Henry looked upset that he was being spied on but then ruefully he shrugged and waved to them. The two flatmates returned his greeting, relieved that their host was such an amiable chap.

'I really think I need to lie down now,' John announced softly. 'This is quite enough excitement for one morning.'

Sherlock mentally chastised himself for not observing this before. He was a terrible nurse! Quickly the detective put his arm around his waist, but was surprised when the doctor pulled him towards the direction of the couch, instead of the staircase.

'Wouldn't you be more comfortable in your room?' Sherlock asked, 'I can carry you if you can't walk. You're not that heavy.'

John groaned contently as he snuggled down into the softness of the couch. 'I would prefer to be in bed but I am not too crazy about leaving you here alone with Henry.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he arranged the blankets, 'Henry and I are grown men John. We're not about to launch into fist cuffs or whatever.'

John closed his eyes. He wasn't afraid that Sherlock would throw a punch at Henry. He was more afraid that if Henry cornered Molly again, the detective would grab a poker and crack open the man's skull like a walnut. The doctor wasn't entirely convinced that Sherlock didn't have a few screws loose in his head, and now was not the time to test the theory.

'Can you sing for me again?' John requested with a huge yawn. 'I'm sorry to keep asking.'

Sherlock shook his head indicating that there was no need to apologise. 'I'm just sorry that I didn't bring up my violin. You must be desperate if you like my singing voice so much.'

'The radio doesn't play nice traditional carols anymore,' John complained as Sherlock sat on the couch facing him, 'I am going to have to make my own playlist for next year.'

Obediently, Sherlock cleared his throat, as he launched into one of John's favourites.

"_Oh, come, oh, come, Emmanuel,  
and ransom captive Israel,  
that mourns in lonely exile here…_

John grinned happily as he slowly faded into unconscious. This Christmas had turned out so well in the end, that he was quite looking forward to the next.

…_until the Son of God appear.  
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel  
Shall come to you, O Israel!"_

**The end.**

**Anote**: Whew, all done. Thanks everyone for reading. It was a pleasure. I wanted to do several snap shots during christmas day but unfortunately this was all I had time for.


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